


when all the world is sleeping

by GoldenTruth813



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Character Study, Chronic Pain, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Non-Sexual Intimacy, POV Shiro (Voltron), Pre-Kerberos Mission, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:54:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28417179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenTruth813/pseuds/GoldenTruth813
Summary: Shiro had spent his entire life looking up at the stars, but he'd never had anyone look at him like he was one.Or the one where Shiro lets Keith love him (and loves Keith in return).
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 172





	when all the world is sleeping

**Author's Note:**

> I chose not to use archive warnings for this fic. It is pre-kerberos but it's very vague about what Keith's age is here when the relationship begins. If that's something that might bother you then take care of yourself. This was originally a thread on twitter but it's been polished and expanded for AO3.
> 
> All the love to starlitruns for the encouragement and amazing beta <3

The thing about Shiro is that he’s never been afraid to dream big. As a kid he hadn’t just asked for the moon, he’d asked for the whole goddamn galaxy.   
“Your dreams are big, Takashi,” his grandfather would say, wrinkled hands slipping under Shiro’s armpits as he lifted him up and put him into bed. 

“Yes,” Shiro would agree in the way only a child can. 

“You must keep your feet on the ground, little one,” his grandfather would remind him, pushing the dark hair from Shiro’s forehead.

“Okay,” Shiro would agree. He always listened. 

“But Takashi, there is something else,” his grandfather would say as he pulled the star- covered comforter up to Shiro’s tiny chin. He would pat Shiro’s face, his hands always smelling vaguely of spices and tea. He smelled like home. 

“What is it, Jiji?”

“Feet on the ground, but your dreams in the sky. You will make the Shirogane name proud.”

Shiro would smile, and when his grandfather smiled back, Shiro felt ten feet tall.

Back then, Shiro was just a child. He still had bad dreams that left him sneaking into his grandfather's room in the middle of the night a few times a week. He still needed a warm glass of milk before bed to help him fall asleep and he always needed the stuffed bear he slept with. 

As he got older, the things he needed changed. 

His grandfather still had to help him into bed—not because he was too small to reach but because of the _pain_. Being tucked into bed at home was replaced by being tucked into a hospital bed.

He no longer drank warm milk at night; instead he sipped tea that left a bitter taste on his tongue. 

“Does it help with the pain, Takashi?” his grandfather would ask, the worry lines on his face pronounced as he made more tea. Always more tea. 

“Yes, Jiji,” Shiro would lie, taking another full mug with his left hand to hide the trembling in his right. 

“That’s good, Takashi. They said it might help,” he would say, brushing the hair off Shiro’s forehead the same way he did when Shiro was a child. The lines on his face deepened, concern making his heart heavy. His smile was the same, though—kind, loving.

“You still need to dream big,” his grandfather would tell him, patting his cheek.

“But the doctors—” Shiro sometimes objected on the days the pain was bigger than his hope.

“The doctors know what your body can do. Not your heart or your mind. Dream big, my boy. Always dream big. You are strong, Takashi.”

“Yes,” Shiro would answer, unsure if it was a lie.

Over the years, other things changed, too. Shiro had a growth spurt that left him looming over his grandfather. He got into the Garrison. 

He also learned what it meant to be alone. Really alone. He learned what it meant to be left with nothing but the ghost of the only person who loved you.

He learned other things, too, like what it took to make his dreams come true. 

Shiro kept a list. He liked lists. They were reliable and they didn’t change.

**1.** _Success takes sacrifice._

It didn't matter what it cost his personal relationships—romantic and otherwise. It would always be worth the sacrifice. If Shiro wanted to make his dreams happen, there was only room for one top priority and it was space. It was always space. 

**2.** _There is no room for anything less than perfection at the top._

To be an explorer took guts. To be a top pilot took skill. To do either with a degenerative disease meant Shiro didn't need to just be top of his class; he needed to be the best there ever was. There was absolutely no room for weakness. No room for failure. And definitely no room for mistakes.

**3.** _Be Happy._

People liked happy people. He learned early on one of the easiest ways to assuage other people’s concerns about his own physical health was to pretend it never hurt. To never, ever let anyone see him as anything other than optimistic and cheerful. Which isn't to say Shiro's personality is a lie. He is happy and he is positive. It’s just that, he’s other things too. 

The other things Shiro are, however, won’t put him on Garrison posters or in the hearts and minds of the decision-makers. It’s not going to land him a chance to explore, to push himself and test the limits of human abilities. To test _his_ abilities.

Shiro learned early on that like his physical pain, his darker thoughts and less positive attributes were better left unsaid.

The other things Shiro are would never land him on the mission to Kerberos.

**4.** _Be patient._

Shiro was never going to get onto a plane or ship on his first day at the Garrison. He was never going to be assigned important missions without taking the shitty ones first. It was going to take hard work and sucking up to the people in charge to prove he was worth taking a chance on. Were he anyone else, his flight record and grades would speak for themselves, but Shiro wasn’t anyone else. He was a boy with a ticking clock in his veins and the Garrison, for all they loved to use him as the pinnacle of Garrison achievement, they were hesitant to invest too much time in him. 

Shiro learned to play by their rules, to be patient. He was in it for the long haul, no matter what it took. 

**5.** _No distractions._

This was one of the hardest, but Shiro did his best. When his peers were sneaking out on Friday nights, Shiro was in the gym following his workout with his prescribed stretching routine. When his peers were hiding behind the bushes drinking contraband liquor and laughing, Shiro was hiding in his room to make sure no one could see the way his muscles distorted the shape of his skin.

Through it all, Shiro did his best to stay focused on the prize at the end of the line.

He never let anything get in the way of his dreams. Not the loss of his grandfather, not the end of the only long-term relationship he'd ever had, nor the Garrison rifling through his medical and academic records looking for a single blemish, a single reason to ground him Earthside.

**6.** _Pain was temporary._

This one was the most important. 

Over the years, the doctors taught Shiro how to manage the pain. _Manage_ being the operative word.

Shiro had a lot of pain, but it never lasted. Nothing was forever. Not pain, not life. Not even death, really, if you believed in reincarnation. 

Shiro believed. 

There was no way to get rid of it. No way to lessen it. But over time, Shiro learned how to anticipate the flare-ups. He learned that staying in perfect shape gave him the best odds of staving off the inevitable degeneration of his body.

Shiro kept his list tucked away on a piece of paper inside his favorite book on the bedside table. It was a good reminder on the days where Shiro's patience wore thin, on the days where his pain left his skin pulled too tight and his heart in the wrong place. 

"I'll make you proud," Shiro would say, standing in his kitchenette with nothing but the light above the microwave on.

On those nights, he made tea.

The tea didn't help. It didn't even taste good. But it was something to do and it reminded him of his grandfather. 

Despite his best efforts, there were times Shiro wasn’t very good at following the list.

Those times always involved Keith.

It started innocently enough. Shiro didn’t have any ulterior motives the first time he met him. It'd been undeniable that Keith was easily the best he saw, and even more undeniable that he deserved a place at the Garrison.

Shiro didn’t put much stock into the whispers that followed when he used the little bit of leverage he had with the Garrison to advocate for Keith’s acceptance into the flight program because it was what Keith deserved. It wasn’t about Shiro; it was about Keith.

Anyone with that much talent deserved a shot. What Keith had done in the past shouldn’t determine what he might be able to do with his future.

Two weeks after donning the uniform for the first time, Keith ruined that shot then ruined it again by stealing Shiro's car. A sensible person would’ve walked away, but Shiro was never capable of being sensible when it came to Keith. Instead he put everything on the line to keep him there, to get him a second chance.

"What the hell are you playing at?" Adam had hissed. 

Shiro hadn't been sure if Adam was angry that Shiro was risking so much, or angry that he was doing it for someone that wasn't him. It was the most emotion Adam had shown in weeks and while Shiro should’ve been frustrated, the most he could do was feel relieved that things were finally coming to a head.

“I’m doing what everyone else should’ve done for Keith a long time ago,” Shiro had bit out. Things had ended with Adam not long after. Adam liked to blame Keith, but the truth was, Keith was just the scapegoat for the reality that Shiro was never going to be who Adam wanted him to be.

It was sad, because Shiro cared about Adam even if he knew he didn’t feel about him the way you were supposed to feel about a lover. Being with Adam was easy, made following his own rules easy.

But the truth was, at the end of the day Shiro didn’t like it easy.

He liked Keith.

Keith was smart as hell and poised to be better than Shiro was one day if he got his shit in line. He was fierce and funny and he was alone. He needed someone. He needed a friend. And Shiro, well, Shiro knew all too well what that felt like.

He didn't expect anything back for helping Keith. He didn't _want_ anything back. 

He just wanted Keith to have what he deserved.

Keith had other ideas. Keith always had other ideas.

"What, do you wanna be friends or something?" he asked one day, so brazen and blunt, banged up knuckles and his lip still split.

"Oh, well, I mean—"

"Okay, then," Keith said, settling the conversation, if it could be called that. 

Shiro hadn’t actually talked much but Keith had decided they were friends. Shiro absolved himself of any messiness about his own feelings with the comfort of knowing this was Keith’s choice.

The very next day, Keith plopped his tray of mystery meatloaf down next to Shiro in the mess hall. Every single head had swiveled round to them. 

A panicked expression crossed Keith’s face. He’d looked ready to bolt or fight. Neither was a good option during the lunch rush on a Tuesday. There was no clear pathway to the yard and too many witnesses if things went bad. Not even Shiro’s reputation could save Keith if he got into another fight.

"Do you want my roll?" Shiro asked, pretending not to notice the deadly silence, hoping staunch denial to acknowledge anyone but Keith might help.

"Shiro."

Shiro picked up his roll and slid his arm across the table to deposit the still warm and buttery roll directly onto Keith's plate. It was the only good thing to eat on Tuesdays. Shiro knew it and Keith knew it.

"Don't look at them, look at me," Shiro said.

Keith did. 

He started to look and he never fucking looked away.

Shiro had spent his entire life looking up at the stars, but he'd never had anyone look at him like he was one. 

By the time Shiro realizes he’s breaking his own rules, he’s in too deep. Keith’s wedged himself so firmly into Shiro’s heart not even his rock-solid composure or high level of self-preservation is enough for him to be objective or calculated where Keith is concerned. 

There’s no stopping the swell of emotions that engulf him every time he catches sight of Keith, still scrappy and full of fire but with a focus in his eyes that makes something inside of Shiro burn. 

Keith’s not a distraction, exactly. He’s something different, something _more_. 

He’s a priority. _Shiro’s_ priority. 

Keith’s happiness and safety feel like the most important thing in the world. Caring about Keith makes Shiro want to push himself harder and further. It doesn’t distract Shiro from his goals, it guides him towards them.

It’s no longer just proving he can succeed to himself, but to Keith. 

For Keith. 

He wants to be worthy of the faith Keith has in him, of the way Keith _looks_ at him. 

So no, Keith isn’t a distraction—he’s something infinitely more. 

More exciting.

More confusing. 

More inspiring. 

More dangerous. 

It’s dangerous because Shiro is afraid of the things he would do for Keith. 

If Keith asked him, he thinks—no, he _knows_ —he’d give up Kerberos. He’d give up everything if Keith asked.

Keith would _never_ ask, would never _want_ him to, either. He wants Shiro to have his dreams as much as Shiro does.

It makes Shiro love him all the more. 

Keith is a boy who thinks he deserves nothing. Who wants nothing. 

Shiro wants to give him _everything_. 

Shiro tries to hold back, just a little bit. Not for himself, but for Keith. 

At least that’s what he tells himself as he throws himself into his training.

Sanda is looking for any reason to replace Shiro and he won’t let it happen. He will prove to the world that he deserves this. He starts to push himself harder, physically and mentally. There’s no room for anything less than perfection leading up to the mission. 

Despite the fact that his name is already written on the paperwork, Shiro wants his name written in the stars.

The days are long and exhausting—full of never-ending meetings and health screenings and sim training—but Shiro revels in the chance to prove his worth. Eventually, though, the long days take their toll. Not on Shiro’s performance. If Shiro wasn’t sure he was capable of piloting this mission, he wouldn’t take it. There are other lives on the line beside his own and even Shiro’s dreams have limits. He would never put anyone at risk, no matter how much he wants this. 

No, Shiro’s ability to fly never falters: it won’t for a few years at least. For now his reaction times and endurance are unmatched. 

As is his pain tolerance. 

Despite the warning signs—the cramping in his hand, the stiffness in his bones, the vice around his heart—he continues to push. He can feel the tremble in his arm at night, the ache in his bones so deep not even the promise of sleep offers a reprieve.

This too shall pass, he tells himself. 

Except it doesn’t.

There’s no reprieve. 

Pain meds take the edge off but Shiro hates them, and the rebound ache is always worse. Hot showers don’t touch the ache, and he’s too proud—and maybe a little afraid of judgement—to schedule an extra physical therapy session. Instead, he tries to make do with his left hand and a tube of pain cream.

He doesn’t let on that he’s suffering because it’s no one else’s business how he feels as long as he gets the job done. His ability to fly and to keep his team safe isn’t at stake—only his own comfort—and that Shiro can sacrifice. 

He’s pretty sure he’s doing a good job of hiding it, too. No one asks why he takes to using his left hand more, or why he takes a more hands-off approach on the days he oversees sparring even though he’s usually the first one demonstrating basic moves to the cadets.

Shiro smiles through the pain and everyone is fooled because that’s the thing about people—they only see what they want to see. It’s not that people are bad, not most of them, anyway. They just see what they want to see, and most people don’t want to see Shiro as fallible or even human. 

In hindsight, Shiro feels like he should’ve seen what happened next coming. 

Keith is not everyone. 

Keith notices things. 

Keith notices _Shiro_

The knock on his door comes at nearly midnight. It’s too late for a visit from any of his commanding officers or another cadet, and it’s most definitely past lights out. 

No one with any sense—or at least any fear of the consequences of being caught—would be knocking on his door right now unless there was an emergency. The lack of alarm bells makes it clear that’s not what’s happening here. 

There’s only one person brazen enough to be paying Shiro a social call at this hour of the night when all the world is sleeping.

Shiro sighs, staring down at the flimsy white tank top he’s got on before grabbing his Garrison sweatshirt off the edge of the couch and yanking it over his head before he answers the knock. 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to see who is on the other side of the door, it’s that he’s not sure he wants to be seen. Shiro’s not exactly at his best right now. 

Despite his insecurities, he answers the door because of course he does—it’s Keith. 

“Shiro, fancy seeing you here,” Keith says innocently, as if his presence isn’t completely against the rules and he didn’t come specifically to Shiro’s apartment.

“You know you could get in trouble being here this late,” Shiro tells him, more out of habit than because he means it. They both know Shiro’s got a blind spot a mile wide when it comes to Keith.

This only makes the other boy’s smile widen. “I guess you better invite me inside, then, so no one else sees me out here _breaking the rules_.”

Shiro’s attempt to remain stoic wavers as he steps aside, leaving enough room for Keith to slide sideways through the doorway. It’s impossible not to smile when Keith is around.

"You got any hot cocoa?" Keith asks before the front door is even shut. 

He doesn’t waste any time waiting for an answer, making himself at home by kicking off his shoes by the door then heading towards the little kitchen, directly towards the cupboard where he already knows Shiro keeps the cocoa.

"Pretty sure I do," Shiro answers, attempting to act as casual as possible.

He definitely does not mention that he arranged an off-base trip a few days ago solely to procure more of the instant cocoa with marshmallows Keith likes. Shiro had offered to make him real cocoa once, but Keith mumbled something about this being the kind his dad used to buy him and Shiro’s made it his mission to always have it on hand since. 

Shiro wants Keith to feel at home with him, to feel safe, and he tries not to spend too much time thinking about _why_.

"Jackpot," Keith crows, pulling the brand new box of cocoa from the cupboard and waving it in the air. 

"Wow, look at that. Your lucky day," Shiro says, biting his bottom lip to keep from smiling.

"Lucky me, indeed," Keith grins. 

He moves around the kitchen like he belongs there.

(He does.)

Keith puts on a kettle for water, humming to himself as he pulls down two mugs from the cupboard above the stove. By the time the water has boiled he's dumped 1 1/2 packets of cocoa into each cup. Keith approaches cocoa-making like a science. He doesn't ask Shiro if he wants hot cocoa, too. It's an assumption, and one Shiro is grateful for. 

Shiro likes that Keith doesn't give him any space to pretend he doesn't have needs. 

It's sort of ironic that Shiro spent the last year trying to make sure Keith knew he deserved good things, and that Shiro wouldn't give up on him, and somewhere along the line, it's Keith who managed to convince Shiro of the same.

"Hey, do you have any—"

"Top of the fridge, behind the cereal," Shiro answers.

Keith moves with grace, rising onto tiptoes to reach behind the box of corn flakes. He pats around, quickly finding what he wants. When he turns around, he's got the rest of the container of marshmallows clutched in his hand, looking victorious. 

There's only a little bit left. Just enough for one mug, really.

Shiro leans against the kitchen island, too sore to stand upright but also too sore to sit. He watches with bemusement as Keith tips the mini marshmallows into his palm and proceeds to divy them up equally between the two mugs. 

Shiro would gladly let Keith take all the marshmallows, but he knows Keith has an easier time sharing Shiro's food when Shiro has some, too. Besides, there's something sweet in the way Keith divides the small pile with such intensity. 

They might technically be Shiro's marshmallows, but it's Keith's attempt to share something with Shiro. It matters to him and so it matters to Shiro.

It's easy to get lost watching Keith. He’s so beautiful with his dark hair spilling across his face and his nose wrinkled up in concentration as he counts marshmallows. If Shiro weren’t worried about embarrassing him, he’d tell Keith as much.

It only takes a minute for Keith to finish the cocoa. When he’s done, he passes Shiro a mug with exactly eight marshmallows floating on top and smiles.

"How is it?" he asks as Shiro takes his first sip.

He always asks, even if the answer is always the same.

"It's good, Keith." 

Keith's smile is nothing short of radiant. 

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, Keith," Shiro assures him "I don't know how you get all the lumps out. Whenever I make it, it never mixes this good."

A flush spreads across Keith's cheeks as he lifts his own mug. "I'm just that good." 

"Yeah, but I already knew that," Shiro says.

It makes Keith choke on his cocoa. It's sweet the way Keith's bravado seems to disappear any time Shiro gives him a genuine compliment.

A lot of things about Keith are sweet. 

As Shiro sips the cocoa, he feels some of his tension melt away. The pain is there, simmering beneath the surface, but there's something else too, something lighter since Keith's arrival.

"Missed you at dinner," Keith says, in a way that would be easy to mistake for casualness. 

It's not a question. Things usually aren't with Keith. It took Shiro a while to realize Keith had his own way of asking things, ways that made sure Keith was never put in the position of being denied or rejected. It's sort of like a Keith code.

Shiro's really good at Keith code. 

"I wasn't hungry," Shiro offers as explanation.

"You're always hungry," Keith retorts.

"Usually, yeah," Shiro laughs. "But not tonight."

"Not tonight," Keith echoes. 

"Right."

"Because you're hurting."

It's Shiro's turn to choke on his cocoa. 

"You can tell me you know. When things aren't good...you can tell me."

"I know, Keith."

Keith makes a funny noise, fixing his gaze on Shiro. "I hate when you lie."

"I don't lie."

Keith snorts. "An omission of truth is still a lie." 

Shiro breathes slowly, making sure Keith’s looking at him when he speaks. "I don't mean to lie," Shiro confesses, which is uncomfortably close to the truth.

"I get it, you know. If you don't _want_ to tell me, but—"

"I want to tell you.”

"Then why don't you?" Keith asks, as if it's that simple. 

Shiro swallows around the lump in his throat, attention unconsciously drawn to his wrist. He took the bracelet off when he showered after dinner and he hadn't put it back on since. Matt called him a masochist once. Shiro's not. He hates pain. But sometimes it's the only reminder he has that his body is still his own.

Keith sets his cocoa down, reaching out for Shiro's wrist and pushing the cuff of the hoodie up. His hands are warm from the cocoa.

"Hurts?" 

Shiro nods, breath catching in his throat as Keith draws the pad of his fingers over the delicate inside of Shiro's wrist. Keith’s hands are so small, so delicate-looking. You’d never know what a force he is to be reckoned with just by looking.

"The extra training?" Keith asks.

"I can handle it," Shiro says.

"Course you can," Keith agrees, tracing over the blue line of Shiro’s vein on the inside of his wrist. 

Shiro's never lacked faith in himself or his abilities. Confidence was a necessity when the world expected little from him, or when people tried to coddle him.

Keith doesn't coddle him. He challenges him.

He pushes Shiro to try harder, to be better. It makes Shiro feel like he could take on the entire universe and win.

"How bad is it?" Keith asks as he pushes the sweatshirt further up Shiro's forearm. 

The muscle beneath Keith's fingers is tight as a bowstring and when Keith presses into it, Shiro grits down hard enough his jaw grinds.

"Maybe a five," Shiro gets out through clenched teeth.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Shiro." 

"I said five."

"I heard you." Keith huffs. "You, Mr. I'm-always-fine, said five. That means it's probably most people's nine. How long?" 

Shiro's ability to deflect wavers as Keith's calloused fingers stroke over his forearm again. He had physical therapy Monday but that was five days ago. Five days straight of feeling like someone twisted his muscles up with a screwdriver. Five days of laying awake at night choking back tears in the dark. Five days of agony.

"It's my own fault," Shiro mumbles, setting his cocoa on the counter before he does something stupid and accidentally spills it down his front. He doesn't trust himself with hot liquids when Keith's touching him.

"You're such a martyr," Keith mumbles, turning Shiro's wrist over in his hand. 

Shiro has no idea what Keith is doing but the touch feels nice, even if it does nothing to alleviate his physical pain.

"It's true," Shiro challenges. "I skipped my exercises to fit in some extra sim training. It was my choice. I accept the consequences of my actions." 

Keith tuts, apparently unwilling to acknowledge Shiro’s words. “Where’s your med kit?”

“There’s nothing in there that will help.”

“So there are things that do help then,” Keith says, lifting his gaze. 

It would be so easy to say no. 

“Yes,” Shiro whispers. 

“Okay,” Keith says.

He doesn’t ask if Shiro will tell him what it is. Of course Shiro is going to tell him. 

There is never a question of what Shiro is willing to lay on the line for Keith, including his own pride. 

“I have something in my room.”

“Lead the way,” Keith says, slowly lowering Shiro’s hand. 

Keith’s been into his room before to study, and even once to nap when his roommate was being obnoxious. But that was different. The times Keith came into Shiro’s personal space was because _he_ needed something, he needed Shiro.

This time it’s Shiro’s turn to need and he feels the weight of that difference in every step he takes. He feels it in the sound of their footsteps down the hall and the way Keith walks beside him, remaining firmly in Shiro’s personal space the entire time. 

Keith is quiet as they step into the room, observant as Shiro grabs clothes off the end of the bed and throws them into the closet. 

“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting company and—“

“I’m not company,” Keith says with enough conviction that Shiro nearly sways on his feet. 

Most of the time it’s Shiro who reminds Keith to be patient, who reminds Keith of his own worth, or offers a few words of wisdom on a bad day. So much so that he forgets how damn good Keith can be at offering support too, in his own way. 

Shiro licks his lips, feels the weight of Keith’s eyes on him and feels the magnitude of all the unsaid things Keith has picked up on. 

It’s been so long since Shiro let himself think or feel without filtering his own responses based on how others might perceive him that it’s easy to forget how goddamn perceptive Keith is. 

There’s something defiant in Keith’s posture, as if he’s waiting for Shiro to try and deny the words, to deny him. Shiro would rather die.

“It’s all in here,” Shiro says quietly, moving to the bedside table. He opens the drawers, forgetting to mask a wince as he bends his fingers to curl around the tube of pain cream. 

He only notices his misstep when he turns around to find Keith watching him with something akin to concern. 

“I’m fine,” Shiro says automatically. Again, a lie he doesn’t mean to tell.

“And I love the Garrison,” Keith retorts, closing the distance between them. 

“Okay, well, that’s not fair.” Shiro snorts. “I have it on good authority that you like it here a little bit.”

Keith tuts. “The rolls are good. Flying sims is pretty awesome.” 

“See, you like it.” 

“I like it because you’re here,” Keith says, displaying another brutal bout of honesty. 

Shiro hides his truths behind an iron wall. Keith wields his like a goddamn sword.   
Sometimes Shiro is sure that Keith knows what he’s doing, that he says these things on purpose to get a reaction from Shiro. Other times Shiro is sure that Keith has no idea how devastating he can be. 

Today is the latter.  
.   
There’s no way Keith has any idea what kind of effect his words have on Shiro or he'd be doing a lot more than standing across from him staring. 

“I don’t want you to feel obligated.” 

“Shiro, please. When was the last time I did anything I didn’t want to?”

“Intro to Ethics. Wednesday, January 9th—you had to gave a speech on—“

“Shut up, Shiro,” Keith laughs. “You know what I mean, smart ass.”

He does know, but he loves making Keith laugh too much to miss the opportunity.

He knows this is fine, that it's just Keith. Still, the effort it takes to hold it out to Keith is monumental. Shiro's smile falters as he unclenches his fingers, holding out the tube of pain cream.

He's always the one helping. He’s the one who takes care of other people. It feels wrong somehow to need so much. 

Shiro is always telling Keith it's okay to trust people, to need them, and the last thing he wants is for Keith to think that Shiro doesn't trust him. It's not about that. It's about Shiro, and his fucking inability to let anyone else take care of him. Partly because he fucking hates being coddled and partly because he's spent most of his life asserting his own independence and strength.

Moments like tonight are the ones Shiro goes to great lengths to make sure no one else sees. 

Shiro's hair is a mess and there's a stain on his hoodie from the microwave mac and cheese he'd secretly inhaled in the kitchen earlier and his stupid fucking hand is shaking and he doesn't even want to look in a mirror right now. He’s not sure why Keith wants to look.

Shiro feels weak and scared and he hates it.

He hates the way his own positivity falters in these moments and the way his confidence wavers.

He doesn't feel like the Shiro that Keith idolizes. 

He feels like a shadow. 

Keith swipes the cream out of Shiro's hand, dropping down onto the bed and crossing his legs. His determination is palpable and some of the stubborn fight goes out of Shiro.   
It's easier to sit down if Keith does it first. He's sitting down to make Keith comfortable, not for himself. 

The relief is visceral as his ass hits the mattress, a heavy breath leaving his lungs.

"There are no directions on here," Keith mumbles, turning the tube around in his hands to study all the sides.

"It's a compound prescription. The directions were on the box but I threw it away. I have them memorized by now and it's not really complicated you just, you know...rub." 

Keith nods, flicking the cap open to smell it. Shiro can’t help but laugh at the way his nose wrinkles in obvious displeasure. Shiro hates the smell, too.

"It makes me smell like an old man.”

"Does it help?" Keith asks, giving it another tentative whiff. He schools his features into something unbothered.

No amount of pride or self doubt would let Shiro answer a direct question from Keith with anything less than complete honesty. It's what Keith deserves.

"Not as much as I wish," he confesses. "It’s, uh, better when someone else does it. It's kind of hard to massage it into the muscle with one hand." 

"Where do I put it?" Keith asks, scooting closer until his knees bump up against Shiro's.

Again, there's no question about whether he will do it. Shiro's not sure if this is to protect Keith or him, but it makes a lump rise in Shiro's throat all the same. 

Keith is so brave. 

Somehow the boy who doesn't seem to believe he belongs anywhere thinks he belongs with Shiro. 

He’s not sure what the hell he did to deserve Keith's intense loyalty and trust, but he knows he will cross entire universes to prove to Keith he's worthy of that devotion.   
Shiro's never been afraid of things that are hard, but he's a little bit afraid now.

Things with Keith aren't hard. They're easy.

They're too easy.

Shiro’s had to fight for every single thing he's got, except this. 

Keith's friendship, his trust, isn’t something Shiro works for. It is something Keith decided to give him and Shiro feels wrongfooted sometimes by how much more it makes him want.

Truthfully Shiro has no idea what will happen with Kerberos, or how many good years he has left. The right thing to do would be to make sure Keith finds someone else, finds a second best friend in case Shiro needs to be replaced.

Except he can't. Just thinking about the idea of Keith sharing this kind of casual closeness and intimacy with someone else makes the bile rise in his throat.

Shiro doesn't want to share Keith. 

Shiro is a selfish fucking asshole because he doesn't want to be replaced. Ever. 

"You can just do my wrist, it's the easiest," Shiro says, holding out his right arm in a desperate attempt to focus on the now.

"I didn't ask for easy," Keith challenges, a fire blazing in his eyes.

It makes something inside of Shiro spark to life.

Over the years Shiro's learned to be reasonable with the things he wants. 

He is not reasonable with Keith.

"Where do you want me to put it, Shiro?"

Keith knows exactly what he's doing with such a direct question, knows Shiro won't lie. There's a relief in it, really, in the way Keith so brazenly demands honestly from him. 

It would be easier to name a place that doesn't hurt, a place he doesn't long for Keith's touch. In lieu of words, Shiro settles for reaching behind his neck and yanking on his hoodie, his dog tags clanking together as he tugs it off. 

He feels more exposed than if he were naked somehow, but he resists the urge to pull away and instead turns his body sideways and presents his entire right side to Keith.

"I don't know if I'm any good at this,” Keith whispers, squeezing out some of the pale cream onto his palm. “If you need it different, or more or whatever, you have to tell me.”

It's not a demand, but a reminder.

Keith can handle Shiro, in every way. 

Keith is not afraid to hear Shiro's truth.

"I'll tell you," Shiro whispers. 

"Good." Keith murmurs, rubbing the cream between his hands and smoothing it over Shiro's wrist and forearm. He's tentative at first, gentle.

Too gentle.

It's sweet, but it's not going to help abate Shiro’s physical pain.

"Harder," Shiro whispers. 

Keith nods, eyebrows knit together and tongue stuck out from between his teeth as he digs his thumbs into the underside of Shiro's forearm with more confidence this time.

Before he can school his features, a grimace appears. He slackens his jaw, attempting to look relaxed, but it's too late.

"You'll tell me," Keith reminds him. He doesn't stop massaging, because Shiro didn't ask him to, but he gentles the movement.

"It's not necessarily a bad pain."

"I wasn't aware there was good pain." Keith snorts, eyes on Shiro's face as he massages into the tight muscle.

"There's bad and _worse_ ," Shiro says. 

"But this isn't worse."

"No, Keith."

It’s enough for Keith to continue, rubbing the cream into every inch of Shiro’s aching wrist and forearm. 

Gently Keith sets Shiro's hand down on his knee and reaches for the cream to squeeze more out. 

This time he moves on to Shiro's hand as well, digging his thumbs right into the palm of Shiro's hand and over the taut muscle. It hurts so much tears prickle at his eyes, but beneath the sharp pain is the promise of relief.

Still, a sob is ripped from his throat.

"Doesn't hurt," he chokes out before Keith can worry.

"It doesn't hurt," Keith echoes, looking unsure. 

It hurts, but not in the way Keith thinks.

It hurts because it's Keith.

It hurts because it's not a doctor or physical therapist or Shiro's stupid left hand doing it.

It hurts because someone who loves him is doing this. 

Keith loves him.

He's never said the words but Shiro knows it’s the truth. That's the thing with Keith, there's more in what he doesn't say than what he does. _Keith code_.

Shiro's reading what is unsaid now. 

Risking everything for a midnight visit. 

Hot cocoa.

Noticing what no one else has.

Touching him.

It's all Keith code for _I see you, Shiro. I'm here for you._

It's more than Shiro knows how to handle. 

Patience. Discipline. Self sacrifice. These are things Shiro is good at.

Whatever is happening right now, this is new.

Shiro's had relationships before, but none of them came close to this. He never would have given anyone else this level of trust. They knew it and he knew it.

He gives it to Keith.

He wants to give Keith every part of himself. 

Not the beautiful, bright parts. Those are already Keith's. He wants to give Keith the small parts.

The ugly parts.

The tired, sad, aching parts of him.

"Look at me," Keith instructs.

Shiro looks, and he knows he won't ever look away. 

"Keith," he chokes out.

"Yeah, Shiro. Yeah."

"Keith," he repeats, jaw trembling as Keith gives Shiro's palm a firm but gentle squeeze, lavishing attention to each individual finger, from the base to the tip.

He's purposeful and thorough, but most of all he's just Keith. His movements aren't practiced. He doesn't know how to massage, but he's confident and careful, applying just enough pressure to soothe the ache without hurting him.

By the time Keith's finished massaging every digit, Shiro is trembling. Surely Keith must notice, but he doesn't say anything. Instead he opens the tube again, squeezing more cream onto his left hand.

This time he skips over Shiro’s palm and wrist and moves upward, starting at Shiro's elbow and massaging his way up to Shiro's bicep. The higher he goes the more the pressure increases, Keith’s thumbs digging into the tender flesh. Every press of Keith’s fingers make Shiro hyper aware how bad he let it get without asking for help. 

The blood in Shiro’s veins burns, the ache in his bones making his entire right side throb with pain. None of it hurts more than Keith's kindness.

It hurts.

It hurts so much Shiro wants to cry. 

"It's really bad," Keith observes when he grips Shiro's bicep and a tear leaks out. "Don't do this again."

"I can't stop flying, Keith."

Keith pauses, eyes rising to Shiro's. "No one said anything about not flying. Just don't do _this_." 

This.

Neglect his own needs. 

Suffer alone. 

"I know how to do this now. You're going to come to me when it hurts, you hear me?” Keith tells him in a way that leaves absolutely no room for Shiro to say no. “I can do this a lot. My hands get bored now that I can't punch anybody. You’d be helping me out, giving me something to do." 

"I never said you couldn't punch anyone."

"Technically true," Keith agrees, massaging his fingers up beneath the side of Shiro's cotton tank and into the tight shoulder muscle. "I believe your exact words were, _'I wouldn't recommend using your fists as a stress outlet.’_ '" 

Somehow talking about something besides his pain makes the fingers digging into his shoulder easier to bear.

"Are you telling me you actually listened to something I said?"

Keith snorts, pushing Shiro's tank further sideways as his fingers slide down over the shoulder blade. "I always listen to you, asshole." 

"I think there's some sort of rule against calling a junior officer an asshole."

Keith laughs, digging his fingers into the knot under the sharp line of Shiro’s shoulder blade and ignoring Shiro’s wince. "Like you care about rules."

"I care about _some_ rules."

"Rules are stupid," Keith says. "The consequence is never fair for everyone. They’re not about justice, they're about control." 

"Sometimes rules keep us safe," Shiro says, thinking about his list hidden away in his bedside table.

"Safety is an illusion," Keith says, the cream long rubbed off from his fingers. He continues to massage Shiro anyway. 

“Don’t you want to be safe?” Shiro asks softly. 

Keith’s inhale is sharp, his fingers stilling on the curve of Shiro’s shoulder. 

“I want a lot of things,” he answers. 

Two direct questions in a row is pushing it, but Shiro’s always been a risk taker. 

“What do you want, Keith?” 

"You know, Shiro," he mumbles. He looks so much younger like this—the armor of confidence he always wears worn thin.

"I can guess, but you've never said. I don’t know for sure."

"I never say a lot of things," he huffs, skimming his hand down Shiro's arm. "That's never made a difference before." 

He's right. Shiro has never cared if Keith said things explicitly. They've always had their own way of communicating. For all they talk, they're both disasters with words sometimes.

Words can be inadequate and unclear.

Actions are decisive and truthful. 

Keith might not have said the words, but he’s told Shiro how loved he is a million times over in his actions. Acting on pure instinct, Shiro tugs Keith closer. He needs him to be closer.

Keith moves with no resistance, slipping his arms around Shiro's middle as his cheek comes to rest against Shiro’s collarbone. Keith’s hair tickles his neck and the warmth of his breath ghosts over Shiro’s exposed skin. 

"You know how important to me you are, right?" Shiro whispers.

"I know, Shiro.”

Keith tightens his hold, but it’s not the reason Shiro suddenly finds it hard to breathe. 

"It would be selfish of me to ask you to wait for me.”

Keith's entire body goes rigid, hands clenching in the back of Shiro's shirt. 

"It'd be so selfish of me to ask," Shiro repeats, tracing his left hand down the line of Keiths spine. "Two years is a long time.”

"Be selfish, Shiro. Please be selfish,” Keith says, voice barely above a whisper. 

Shiro forgets the pain. He forgets the reasons this is objectively unwise. He forgets every rule he’s ever made for himself. 

He forgets it all for the boy he will never forget. 

“I have a ticket for the launch in a few months,” Shiro tells him. “It’s for you.” 

“The launch,” Keith repeats, his words barely audible over the pounding of Shiro’s heart. 

He can practically hear Keith’s thoughts. 

The launch is only for family. Maybe an exception for engaged couples. It’s not for friends. Not even best friends. 

“But Iverson—“

“Iverson already knows,” Shiro answers, hugging Keith tighter. 

He doesn’t need to know the details. He doesn’t need to know what other people think of him and his relationship with Shiro. They don’t matter. Other people’s opinions don’t matter. 

“I know it’s a lot to ask. I know you hate goodbyes but—“

“Then don’t let it be a goodbye.” Keith pulls back, his big eyes on Shiro. The fire in his eyes has dwindled, still warm but less intense. Less sure. “Don’t let it be a goodbye, Shiro.”

Shiro’s hand shakes as he brings it up to cup the side of Keith’s face, awed by the way he leans into the touch. 

“I’ll come back to you, Keith.”

“Promise,” Keith exhales. 

Whether it’s a demand or a question, Shiro has no idea. 

“I promise, Keith. No matter what it takes. I will come back to you. I will always come back to you.” 

Shiro’s never seen Keith cry.

He cries now. 

Silent tears stream down his face as he rubs his cheek into Shiro’s palm. Shiro doesn’t mention them. He knows Keith wouldn’t want him to.

Shiro drops his hand from Keith’s cheek to reach for the chain around his neck, carefully pulling it over his head before draping it over Keith’s. It hangs longer on him, the dog tags clinking together as they fall together. 

“I won’t keep these,” he sniffles, rubbing the back of his hand over his nose. “You better fucking come back for them.” 

“I will,” Shiro assures him, tracing his finger over the chain around Keith’s neck. He likes the way the metal looks against the hollow of his throat, the way Shiro’s name looks resting over Keith’s chest, over his heart. 

“Good,” Keith says. 

Shiro doesn’t think, just acts, dropping his face down to kiss Keith. 

“Oh,” Keith whimpers, his own hands pressing against Shiro’s chest as he kisses back.

The acidic smell of camphor and capsaicin clings to Shiro’s nose as he kisses Keith, the salty taste of tears on his tongue. 

It’s perfect because it’s Keith. 

“Stay,” Shiro says when they’ve stopped kissing long enough for him to catch his breath.

Shiro doesn’t specify if he means the night or forever—ready to take whichever Keith will give.

“Was already planning on it,” Keith grins, a hand on Shiro’s hip as he leans back onto Shiro’s pillow and takes Shiro with him. 

Still sore, Shiro ends up flat on his back with Keith spooned up against his left side. 

“Hey, Shiro,” Keith whispers. 

“Yeah, Keith?”

“I’ll wait for you. As long as it takes. I’ll wait.” 

Shiro isn’t strong enough to tell him no even though he’s terrified of leaving him for two years. This isn’t just Shiro’s choice. He doesn’t get to decide what’s best for Keith, and if Keith has decided what’s best for him is Shiro, then Shiro is damn well going to make sure he’s worthy of it. 

He tightens the arm around Keith’s shoulder and he kisses the top of his head, relishing in the little hitch in Keith’s breathing. 

“Hey, Keith?”

“Yeah, Shiro?”

“Want me to smuggle some space rocks back for you?” 

Keith laughs, the sound reverberating against Shiro’s chest. It’s a joyful sound and one Shiro is going to carry with him into the silence of space.

“Okay,” Keith answers. 

Shiro can feel the smile in his tone even if he can’t see it. 

In this moment Shiro knows with certainty that no force in the universe will stop him from keeping his promise. 

He will come back to Keith.

**Author's Note:**

> Come scream about Shieth with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/goldentruth813)


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